Experiment
by Snootiegirl99
Summary: Woven through canon, John narrates how he fell in love with Sherlock, despite his many flaws, from the first cab ride to a crime scene. Part 1 of 2 in the series The Great Detective and the Army Doctor.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** i am apparently either an inattentive author or a lazy one. I didn't ensure the correct breaks were in each chapter to separate the past from the present. I have corrected this oversight (8/18/15). Forgive me.

* * *

I think I fell in love with his mind in that first cab ride to Brixton and a crime scene.

My involuntary exclamations of admiration surprised me as much as him.

And then when I was standing in front of Mycroft, not knowing who he was, I felt so protective of Sherlock. When Mycroft said, 'nothing indiscreet,' about his information needs, I felt like hitting him hard enough to knock him out of his £500 pair of shoes.

My fist clenched and unclenched, and I didn't notice that it wasn't shaking until Mycroft pointed it out. It's true. I had a lot on my mind at the time.

I had just met the most amazing person. And he wanted me in his life, apparently. He had invited me along to look at the dead woman in pink. I had seen his eyes sparkle when he thought about 'the Work', when he spoke about it. His deductions fell out of his mouth, struggling with each other for prominence as they tumbled out into the light.

The sensation of being wanted, needed, and useful are John Watson's drugs. The soldier in me. The doctor in me. I could not do nothing with this life. I am a man of action.

And Sherlock was promising action in spades.

With the bonus of a companion who was bright and interesting-how did I get so lucky after being so unlucky for so long?

Mycroft droned on about worrying about Sherlock 'constantly' and how Sherlock was the drama queen. Hah!

His remark about being very loyal very quickly struck me again. Yes, you learned to read people quickly when you were about to put your life into their hands and ask the same of him or her. Afghanistan had taught me that. And there was something about Sherlock. Perhaps I didn't have his deductive powers, but I knew some important characteristics of Sherlock based on our adventures already.

I knew that Sherlock didn't smile at just anyone. I knew that he had a fragile ego even if he tried to hide it. I knew that that ego deflated every time that woman referred to him as 'freak,' even as his sarcasm rose to parry it. And I knew that I was able to hide some things from his too perceptive gaze.

Or maybe I didn't hide it.

Later, in the restaurant, he saw right through my fumbling attempts to sound him out about his sexual preferences, forcing me to retreat into heterosexuality. It was a bad habit, I know. But I had learned it in the military, and it had stuck.

Maybe he had perceived my interest before that and hadn't broached the subject directly to avoid potentially embarrassing me. If he wasn't attracted to me . . . then that would explain his first rejection.

Although I'm not sure that Sherlock would see it as rejection. More like a pronouncement of 'it's too soon'. In which case, I learned something else about him. He wasn't the automaton that he wanted the world to think he was. He had feelings the same as any of us.

The same as any man.

But he was more comfortable with his ideas, his Work. That's fair. It's not like Sherlock had a great track-record with people. The smarter he became, the more experienced in general, the farther the chasm between his quick mind and the sluggards surrounding him. And the defense mechanism of the stupid is always to marginalize. Marginalize Sherlock and his beautiful, brilliant mind.

The best thing about the army was the way it stripped us all down and made us back up. Yes, I was a doctor, but I went through the same training as the rest of the troops. I had to if I was going to be fit for front-line service. So I was yelled at and called lazy and weak. And I knew that it was all a game to make us mentally tougher.

So then when the cards were down and lives hung in the balance, we didn't question. We didn't hesitate. We didn't wonder if the guy we were trying to save was worth saving. We just knew. He was here, wasn't he? He was one of us. They were all 'one of us'.

Of course I hadn't always been in the military. I had had my fair share of bullying due to my stature. Looking back on secondary, I suppose that was one of the things that appealed about being in the army. I would be given the kind of physical training needed to be a strong man no matter my size.

Plus, I knew I always wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help people. And who needed more help than the men and women putting their lives on the line every day? By extension, I hoped I was also helping the people of Afghanistan as well.

Well.

Back to my original point: I was already in love with Sherlock on a primal level. It was so deeply ingrained in me that I couldn't name it for that at all. He just pulled at me like gravity. I was caught in his orbit. Love was insufficient a word to describe the way our lives fell together like the two halves of a neatly shuffled deck of cards.

Of course, like cards, this was all a big gamble as well.

* * *

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Is this . . . real?"

Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch in our sitting room. He was holding out a sandwich I had made for him days ago.

"Uh, yes. But don't eat it. It's gone bad," I said as I scooped it out of his hand and headed for the bin. "Do you want a fresh one?" I threw back over my shoulder.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. I could tell by his tone that I had asked the most obvious question ever.

By the time I had made his sandwich and added a cuppa to it, he was curled up in the fetal position with his back to the coffee table.

"Sherlock?" I asked tentatively, not at all sure he was awake.

"Mmmm," he grumbled.

I looked over his shoulder to see if his eyes were closed. They were. I set the plate and mug on the table for him to find later. Knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't sleep all that long anyway. They would still be palatable when he awoke.

I walked to my chair, picked up the novel lying face-down on the arm, and settled myself in to read. What else is there to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon when you were single?

After a few minutes of his inactivity, I put down my book and cast my eyes over his blue-clad form. He was fond of his dressing gowns. And I liked seeing him in them as well. They said home. They said safe.

Sometimes a little home and a little safe were the best things in the world to balance out the scary world beyond our doors.

I pondered that lazy Sunday. I pondered a great many things. I thought about the first night of our acquaintance again. How Sherlock had known that I needed excitement in my life. I thought about how I had killed for him.

How had I killed for him after such a short amount of time?

I had asked myself this many, many times in the past year and a half. But I don't think I had come up with a completely satisfying answer yet.

Then my mind followed the familiar-trod path of 'but I didn't kill for Sherlock.' I killed a serial killer. I performed a public service. And Sherlock had said that he was dying anyway. So it was perhaps a mercy to a dying man as well-not that he deserved mercy for what he put those people though.

So I'd argue with myself back and forth before acknowledging that either way, I was hooked from day one. I was drawn to this man, my flat-mate. I had to know more about him and participate in his world. I had to know that I was contributing, even in some small way.

He was my drug now.

"John!" came the shout from the couch that startled me from my thoughts.

"Yes, Sherlock," I said, none too concerned despite his alarm.

He turned to see me sitting in my chair, unconcerned about anything at the moment.

"Oh," he said. His eyes dropped to his sandwich and tea. Flipping his long legs over and onto the floor, he sat up and began eating as if he hadn't been asleep for over an hour.

"Have a good nap?" I asked him, flipping on the telly.

"Hmph," was all I got.

"Good," I said absentmindedly.


	2. Chapter 2

I remember my first return to Baker St. It wasn't really my home, not yet. But with Myrcroft's assumption that it was still buzzing around me, I had to admit even to myself that I didn't feel like a stranger crossing that threshold.

Seeing Sherlock on the couch in an obvious state of semi-euphoria was-distracting-to say the least. His dilated eyes, the talk about breathing. He thought breathing was boring then. I know that he does not hold that same belief anymore.

I tottered in the doorway, half-way in and half-way out. I kept my right hand and the crutch behind me. I was already more than willing to throw the damn thing away, although I hadn't found the right moment yet. I wasn't completely distracted from my earlier state of mind. But I was half-way into my new life at this point.

For I see now that Mycroft was more than right. They both were. I did miss the action of war. And the action of the underbelly of London was a balm to my troubled mind. I don't consider myself to be a violent person. I know how to defend myself and won't hesitate to do so. But I don't engage in violence for sport or pleasure.

Well, not for the pleasure of beating someone up anyway.

I have a temper. I know that. And that's fine. I have ways to deal with it. As troubled as my mind and body were by my injury and subsequent discharge from the army, my soul was intact. I know that I am a good man. I am a doctor. I have done more good in this life than bad.

When I took that final step into the sitting room-our sitting room-in Baker Street, I was all in. No looking back.

Handing Sherlock my phone, his long fingers brushed against mine. I had to turn and walk away from him to hide my reaction. Then I watched him basically cradle my phone between those lean hands and under his chin, becoming a part of his pose on the sofa.

When Sherlock first detailed his Mind Palace to me, I had to stop myself from laughing. He was very serious about it and very peeved with my initial reaction. But the idea that he 'lived' in a palace in his mind seemed so ludicrous to a man like me.

My life was visceral. A surgeon. A soldier. I am by no means unintelligent or uneducated (no matter your opinion, Sherlock), but I like food and sex and adrenaline. Sherlock likes adrenaline too. He forgets that even though it originates in the brain, it affects the body most profoundly too.

Seeing him lying there with his 'three-patch problem' while I checked the street outside for evidence of someone else following me, I was struck by the frankly ludicrous turn my night, and my life, had taken. I wonder if Stamford had foreseen half of this.

There's a thought. What had led him to think that Sherlock and I would make good flatmates anyway? Was he just interested in keeping me in London when I couldn't afford it? Maybe he thought the coincidence too delicious.

Why was Stamford so self-conscious about his weight anyway?

I faltered a bit when I realized Sherlock called me all the way across town to send a text for him. Although sending a text to a murderer was more exciting than your usual. Then he started calling me an idiot.

It was right on the tip of my tongue to tell him to go to hell and stalk down those stairs and back to my life. My life consisting of a single cell containing no personal possessions beyond my clothing, my laptop, and my service piece. My life of quiet and solitude.

Stalled by these thoughts, I looked around the Baker Street flat one more time and realized that I liked the clutter. It felt cozy. Granted, rotting food on plates and empty tea cups everywhere wasn't as appealing as the books and papers and assorted artifacts of Sherlock's Work. But I could probably deal with that. I had dealt with the desert.

I even liked the skull. He was very Gothic.

I really liked Mrs. Hudson. She was a definite plus to living here. Like a mum but better.

And then we were off again. Thank god. I was starving.

* * *

After Sherlock finished his sandwich and grumbling, he actually picked up the empty plate in one hand, his laptop in the other, and walked to the kitchen. I heard the plate hit what was probably the sink.

"You washing up then?" I called to him and grinned for all I was worth.

"John," came his velvet voice, right behind my chair. God, he was bloody fast! I started a little and blushed at being caught making fun of him.

Leaning forward, Sherlock brought his laptop over my head and into my lap, depositing it there and then placing his hands on either armrest to hold his weight steady.

"Do you see?" he asked me.

"Uh, see?" I answered with finesse.

An exasperated huff was all I got before the deluge of information hit my shoulder.

"The killer was careful, John, but not careful enough. He couldn't control the weather, you see. Oh, no, he thought he could. Thought he had it planned out to the last second. Oh, but he didn't see this coming. No sir."

Sherlock leaned back from my chair, and I heard him cross his arms. I didn't have to see him to know that he had a self-satisfied smirk on his mouth. Whatever. That sort of thing didn't bother me anymore.

"He didn't see the weather coming? Who can?" I asked naively. Sometimes I just couldn't resist.

"Oh! John!" he exclaimed and dropped his hands to his thighs-I could hear them slap down. I waited for the verbal abuse.

But it never came.

What did happen was a sweet touch of his bow lips to the back of my freshly shaved neck. The barest swipe of skin on skin and then the warm breath exhaled on my skin. I felt the prickles rise.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked me with his most sultry voice. I let out the breath that had caught in my throat at his initial touch.

"Yes," I responded. "I am now." My head bowed just a bit in my simultaneous relaxation and arousal.

"No, I think you were enjoying yourself before now," he rejoined. His hands came to rest on top of my shoulders, lightly.

"Mmmmm," I agreed with him. It was true.

It didn't take me long into our relationship to figure out that as much as Sherlock wanted to think he was just a computer hard drive with arms and legs, there was more to him. He had a complete body, a heart, and a cock. Just like any man.

But the route to the other parts always started in his brain. The brain is the biggest sex organ of any person, male or female.

And Sherlock's over-developed organ was so very sensitive and responsive. I loved stroking it with my words.

"Aren't you going to tell me I'm an idiot, Sherlock?" I asked him, cocking my head a little to the side to catch his curls in my peripheral vision. He had angled his head to rub his nose along the vertebrae in my neck, knowing how it sent shivers down my spine.

"You, John Watson," he rumbled against my skin. "Are my idiot."

I smiled and looked at the laptop still sitting in my lap. I gently lifted it and myself up and out of the chair, setting it in its usual place on Sherlock's desk. When I turned around, I took in the sight of my detective still bent over my chair.

"I'm not finished with you yet," he informed me.

I crossed my arms and planted my feet.

"Oh, yeah?" I challenged.

He was momentarily surprised into silence.

"Well, perhaps I'm not finished with you, love," I was quick to assure him. "In fact, my brilliant man, I'm just getting started."

I had let my voice be colored by my arousal this time just to see the shivers run through him.

"I like to watch you from a distance, a small distance, to see how your mind directs those capable hands, those captivating eyes, my favorite lips. I like to see what you look like as my words sink into you," I was laying it on thick tonight. But I felt that we needed it.

This case had been eating at Sherlock-hence his lack of eating. He looked beautiful and ethereal as always, but he also looked strung out a bit. Tired. And too thin. It made my caretaking instincts go into overdrive when I saw him like that. But since he had just eaten, I figured the next step was to get him into bed.

Then he could surrender to sleep.

You know, after. He could use a little un-boring breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

I had never really thought about intelligence all that much before meeting Sherlock and Mycroft.

I was intelligent enough to become a doctor, to survive a combat zone, to become a reasonably adult human being. But I didn't spend a lot of time separating my mind from my body.

Nothing like Sherlock of course.

I think he intimidates people on a few levels. It's not just the brains. It's his passion and intensity too. He denies that he feels, but the truth is that he feels more keenly than most people. Just as his brain works more.

Because of his hyper-awareness of other people's physical condition, body language, behavior, and heart beats per minute, he sees the slights and judgement that the rest of us are oblivious to. Even without her words, Donovan hurts Sherlock every single time they have an encounter.

He can feel the shift of eyes, the stiffening of posture, or the subtle distancing of themselves from him. He know full-well what all of that means too. Freak. Crazy. Addict. Other.

Genius.

Sherlock told me that first night that the frailty of genius was that it needed an audience. I listened but I didn't hear him.

I responded with a gruff, 'yeah'. But I still thought he was talking about the murderer. He certainly tried to make it seem that way.

But here I was, a complete stranger, accompanying him on a stake-out, having just accompanied him to a crime scene, almost entirely because he had asked. All he had to do was ask me to participate in his life instead of my own.

He said he liked company when he went out. Talking aloud helped him think. He said those things. And then he said genius liked an audience.

And I had signed up immediately.

Clearly, I thought, the life of a genius must be more exciting and fulfilling than an average Joe's. All the things they could do with their minds. The things they could understand and invent. The insights into humanity and science.

How thrilling.

But, as I said, I didn't hear him. Not correctly.

Genius needs an audience for the feedback. It needs an audience for the mirror. The audience gives encouragement and appreciation. The audience expresses their awe and amazement. The genius performs another feat of intelligence.

What he failed to mention to me then was what happened when the audience filed out of the theater, back to their mundane lives. What happens to the genius then? Without an audience.

The truth is that their lives can become just as pedestrian as anyone else's. And it's not the genius that goes mad. It's the boredom. The dull edges getting duller. The gray corners of life in between the flashes of bright white. That's where things fall apart.

Unless a genius such as Sherlock manages to find someone who can constantly brighten up the gray as well as tone down the stark white. The genius won't even miss the high of the flashes with the more steady center constantly feeding their ego with purpose and meaning.

That's where I came in to Sherlock's life and saved him from himself.

* * *

I followed Sherlock into our room and turned on the bedside lamp. He stood in the middle of the floor, halfway between the doorway and the bedside. Our little bedtime routine.

I came up behind him and reached up to slide his dressing gown over his broad shoulders and down his strong arms. I hung it on the back of the door for use tomorrow. As I did so, Sherlock turned to face me.

I returned to him and settled into his warm embrace, my cheek resting above his beating heart. My arms settled around his lower back, squeezing briefly before resting back into a holding posture. His arms wrapped around my shoulders.

It was something I had to get used to when we first began our physical intimacy, our height difference. It was different to tilt my head up to kiss instead of down or straight ahead. But Sherlock was so gentle a lover that I never felt uneasy or uncomfortable with it.

It was just another part of us. Like his greater intellect.

I had the greater amount of experience with emotional attachments. The greater amount of 'data,' Sherlock would say. So we complemented each other.

I could be calm when he was frantic. He could be rational when I was emotional.

Next, I brought my arms back around his sides to begin unbuttoning his shirt from the top down. I preferred this direction so that I could follow my hands with my mouth and mark him, day after day, as mine.

His head dropped back to expose that impossibly long neck. I paused a moment to look up past the sparse dusting of chest hair to the notch between his collar bones. Then up and over that pointed chin to the lips that were so acerbic and so sweet at the same time.

My Sherlock. Contradictions personified.

It was in these moments that he was truly himself. When he was quiet and tired. It wasn't often, but then it was more common now than it had ever been in his life before me. It was when Sherlock could stop trying to prove himself to everyone and just be-be with me-be us.

I slid the shirt off of his shoulders and arms the same way I had the dressing gown. But the shirt ended up in a heap on the floor. I was too eager at this point to keep moving over his skin and our routine to bother with taking care of his posh clothing. If he felt the need to complain, he kept it to himself. Night after night.

This routine was one of the first things I had instituted after our first rush of sexual exploration. I needed Sherlock to embrace routine as something other than boring and pointless. He needed something to look forward to that was repetitive.

He needed to not get tired of me either.

I would be his audience. I would stroke his ego, among other things. But he would defer to my care. It was a good compromise.

With his shirt dispatched, Sherlock backed up to the bed and sat down. I followed and knelt between his legs. My strong surgeon hands undid his belt and snaked it out of his belt loops. Doing so always reminded me of a case. A belt. A strangling. An unlikely perpetrator. Sherlock had known that there was a belt involved from the beginning just like he knew about the Pink lady's case.

I smiled to myself. The vagaries of the mind. The connections of thoughts and impressions was something I had pondered a lot during my last tour. Between influxes of wounded, I had a lot of down-time to chase my ideas around my own head. Right now, I wondered why I would equate a strangling with my slow lovemaking. It doesn't seem as if the belt connection itself would be enough.

"Hey," came a soft voice.

I looked up expectantly, realizing that I had stopped moving and simply held the belt in my hands.

"You're thinking too much," Sherlock informed me.

In another context, I would have snorted loudly and launched a handy rejoinder. But here in the quiet and semi-darkness, I just smiled more broadly.

Oh, wait.

"You're rubbing off on me, I guess," I said, waggling my eyebrows.

"Not yet, I'm not," he answered. "But keep going on my pants, and we'll see what comes up."

I laughed quietly, squeezing my eyes shut tight. "That was bad," I scolded him.

He chuckled too and carded a hand through my hair. "Best I could do," he said.

I sobered. Yes, he was tired. He was very tired if he was admitting to it impairing him and his wit.

I quickly popped open his button and fly, regaining my feet with a quick kiss to his lips. I pulled him to standing and slid trousers and pants down his thighs. Our eyes held each other tightly.

"I've got you," I assured him.


	4. Chapter 4

Archenemies. People don't have archenemies.

But what about nemeses? I had a nemesis back in basic training. Big, hulking bloke who was really very nice. He was polite and friendly to me. But I still competed with him in my mind at least. Everything seemed to come so easily to him-everything physical of course. But he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.

So maybe he was just more a rival than a nemesis then. Just someone I competed with in my own mind but went out for beers with in reality. Everyone has those 'friends' and acquaintances who drive you to distraction. But you can't really come up with a decent excuse to excise them from your life.

Because all of the excuses you do come up with make you look like a petty wanker.

But Sherlock. He is the kind of man who would have nemeses (plural). He played socially oblivious. True, he didn't go in for niceties, but he did seem to like antagonizing people purposely. Like that crack about the policewoman and the criminalist. He did that just to embarrass and shame them. He knew it would. He's not a social void as much as he puts on.

Maybe that's why he demurred at Angelo's.

Since I'm in a confessing mood, I'll admit that I was hitting on Sherlock. Clumsily. But I was. Even after trying to convince the restauranteur that we weren't on a date, I still hit on him.

He didn't dispute Angelo's calling me his date. Maybe he had brought other dates here.

He also smiled at Angelo in a distinctly human way.

"So do you have a girlfriend?" I asked him, casually.

"Not really my area," was his immediate response as he continued to stare out the window behind me. That seemed like a very layered response. Was I supposed to infer something?

Ah, I thought. "Boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way." Stop being so cloying, Watson, I scolded myself.

"I know it's fine," he was quick to defend again. Oh, crap, I didn't mean to indicate that I was covering up any latent homophobia. I should have just stayed with 'boyfriend?'

"Right. So you're unattached. Just like me," I lamely offered. My normally steady hands fiddled with the menu. I couldn't believe how un-smooth I was being. You're going to fuck it up, I thought.

I swallowed my laughter when Sherlock told me he was married to the Work. Yeah, right. Ok, we'll play it that way for a while then.

I wasn't so hard up that I couldn't commit myself to a long courtship. Walk around the edges of it for a while. Let it simmer and expand while we got to know each other on other levels.

Simply put, friendship was a wonderful basis for a romantic relationship. Always made the sex more fulfilling to truly desire the pleasure of the other person. One-night stands were about getting yourself off. Committed sex was about getting off on getting the other person off.

The work you had to put in became part of your own arousal. Knowing just where and how and for how long. That was the kind of intimacy that I craved. It was the kind of intimacy that I hadn't had much in my life.

But I wasn't dead yet. And I was still looking.

And, by god, looking at Sherlock did nice things to me. The low lighting of the restaurant produced amazing shadow-play on his features. And the spark in his eyes from the thrill of the hunt was intoxicating. I had forgotten about my walking cane well before we had leapt up from the table to pursue the cab.

I felt heat creeping up through my abdomen as I pretended to peruse the menu. I swallowed hard to try to keep any tell-tale flush from reaching my neck or cheeks. I already knew that Sherlock's attentive eyes would catch everything. He could probably hear my heart rate speeding up.

I was truly grateful when the taxi stopped on Northumberland street and we started running. It was a much more satisfactory way to explain my elevated blood pressure and heavy breathing. Plus, the endorphins.

How I didn't reach over and clench my fingers in those lustrous curls when we were panting together in the hallway back at Baker Street, I'll never know. Perhaps I was too caught up in the intrigue of the case. Too focused on the moment of the danger we had faced and come away from unscathed.

But I also respected his choice to obfuscate his sexuality that night. We had just met. It really was rather forward of me to hit on him when we were considering-practically had decided by then-becoming flatmates. What if he had given over for a one-nighter that first night?

We probably wouldn't have considered the flat share after all. I'm glad that he was smart enough, and restrained enough, to rein me in. He knew, as I did, that there was something sparking between us that had nothing to do with sex.

Luckily, a handy drugs bust interrupted our trains of thought as well.

* * *

"I know you do," Sherlock replied to my assurances.

I couldn't resist kissing him again, trying to swallow his words. I love his voice. It does amazing things to me. Just like that violin. It reverberates through me, his lips the bow on my taught strings.

He knows just how to play me.

"John," he said, sultry and warm.

"Yes?" I responded and looked up into his eyes.

Sherlock took his long fingers and ran them from the inside of my eyebrows over the bridge of my nose and out onto my cheeks. Then they went up to my temples and rubbed little circles.

"You look tired too," he observed.

"I shouldn't be. It's only half past four. And I slept rather well last night. I think the rainy Sunday afternoon is getting to me," I said. My hands slid down to cup his perfectly round ass. He hummed in appreciation.

"Take off your clothes and lie down with me," Sherlock suggested.

Why the hell not? We've got nothing else on.

I shucked at a leisurely pace, something we were both trying to observe. Passion was lovely and all, but savoring moments was important too. Especially when you faced your mortality almost weekly. We didn't need to rush the quiet moments and make them too much like when we are running through London, dodging bullets and bad guys-all sweat and adrenaline.

After folding all of our clothing and placing it in a neat pile or on a hook, I returned to stand at Sherlock's feet. He had stayed sitting up on the bed to watch me move. He always liked to watch me.

After our first kiss, Sherlock told me that I didn't dress like a homosexual. I was too 'conservative' and 'prudish'. That led to a long talk about stereotypes. I had often wanted to broach that subject with the Great Detective, but had always been distracted by something more urgent.

Just how many of Sherlock's deductions are couched in stereotypes? He likes to use phrases like 'balance of probability' and 'statistically significant,' but aside from his and Molly's chemical tests in the lab, most of what he does is much less scientific.

Mycroft asked me what I knew about Sherlock's heart that he chose to be a detective instead of a scientist. I didn't know at the time. But I do now.

I know that Sherlock's disdain for human beings is only surpassed by his fascination for them. Not so? Ah, but look at the facts.

Why would a man who claims that his body means nothing and his mind is all take the profession of a private detective-a profession notorious for Mycroft's dreaded 'legwork'. That necessitates a body that is at least equal if not superior to his opponents, doesn't it?

Why not shut himself up in a think tank somewhere and cure cancer, colonize Mars, and clean up the oceans? Why not retreat into a purely intellectual world?

Simple. Sherlock likes to be around people. He likes to puzzle them out. He's an anthropologist. But he can't resist interjecting himself into their little domestics. Hence he solves their crimes, their puzzles.

And he wouldn't have to deal with the likes of Mrs. Hudson, Molly, or me. But he likes us. He even loves a few of us.

So his pure intellect came crashing down the night I kissed him and undressed him. His stereotypes about men and women were turned on their heads. And he has had a great many things to think about since then.

When he's not thinking about having sex with me, that is.

"Are you watching, Sherlock?" I asked as I ran my hands through is locks. He tilted his head back to look me in the eyes.

"Mm-hmm," he agreed. Then his eyes closed slowly indicating I had found the sweet spot on his scalp.

I stepped closer to his body so that my groin brushed against his stomach. His arms snaked around my waist and held fast. I continued to massage his follicles and rubbed my slowly awakening penis on him.

After a moment, he tilted his head back forward into my upper abdomen. I felt his lips start to kiss me softly. I reminded myself that he was tired and that this shouldn't be a full-on languid session. Sometimes the slower you go, the more exhausting it is. Marathon versus sprint.

"Lie back," I told him. He complied immediately, holding out a hand to me to join him.

I cuddled up next to him on my side. Sherlock was not a back sleeper, but he preferred to be on his back and have me face him when we were snuggling. Sherlock Holmes, snuggling. What a fun picture it always is in my head.

I planted a few more soft kisses on his collarbones and neck.

"Let's try to get some sleep, ok?" I suggested.

"Yes, John," he rumbled through his chest, making me wiggle next to him.

"That's not helping," he chastised me.

"Nor is that voice of yours. You know what it does to me," I countered.

His light chuckle was the last thing I remember before falling asleep with my arms full of warm detective.


	5. Chapter 5

I preened when Sherlock took notice of my blog. Even if he said ungenerous things about it, I still liked that he read it. It meant a lot to me.

That was another thing about Sherlock that I learned early on. If he truly didn't like something, he took no notice of it whatsoever. But if he railed on about it, then there was something there. Didn't mean he did like it-like the proverbial school yard boy who pulls pigtails-but it meant that it provoked a reaction in him.

And indifference was what I avoided like the plague. Indifference to anything made it disappear. The ignored wilted and shrank. It suffered and sank. Indifference is the enemy.

Mycroft's studied blasé about everything still drives me nuts. Even when he is agitated, he is still controlled. And he was especially controlled when he was insulting and belittling my Sherlock.

All those years, growing up with that kind of influence on him could have destroyed Sherlock's spirit. Luckily, his intellect took up the charge of his protection before I came round. The mind palace kept the fragile things safe from Mycroft's East Wind.

And now, I would happily show Mycroft a thing or two I learned in the army about how to incapacitate a larger opponent. Not that I would take any pleasure in hurting Mycroft physically, but cowing him a bit when it came to his dressing-down of Sherlock would be a bit good.

Lestrade was the first one to say 'Sherlock is a great man' to me. I turned those words over and over in my mind in the cab on my way to who-knew-where in pursuit of Sherlock and the serial killer. A great man. But not a good one? He was doing a good thing chasing a killer, wasn't he? He was pursuing social and moral justice.

If he saw it as a puzzle or a lark, well, the ends justified the means, yes?

A great man. What other great men have there been in recent memory? I am hard-pressed to think of two to rub together. It seems that all of our idols are eventually hauled down to the level of we mere humans by their own frailties. Famous internet-blogger that I am, I am divided on whether that is a good by-product of the Information Age.

I had only known Sherlock mere hours; Lestrade even fewer. Their fervor over this case was intoxicating. Not just the danger or risk of it, but the need to pursue this predator no matter the cost to themselves. I was swept up in the 'greatness' of both of them. I still am.

I do crave excitement in my life, but I think even more than that is the feeling of living. Enthusiasm. Passion. Fervor. Fire. Arousal. Whatever you want to call it. When you can feel your heart beating and your skin is a-tingle, that is life. Living.

When time passes unnoticed, that is living.

Unfortunately, I have lived death. Too much death. Death does not move. It stops. Death does not stimulate. It is the absence of any movement or breath.

I do not want to live death in any way. I was living death in that cell that the Army provided for me, when I trudged to my therapist twice a week, when I was walking past Bart's and Mike stopped me. That was living death in the heart of London.

My blog, my doctoring, my presence in Sherlock's world are all living. John Watson lives with effusion.

As does Sherlock.

* * *

I awoke slowly as I always did from unscheduled naps. Mornings were quicker, more natural. The slide of light into the darkness helps me adjust from sleep to wakefulness more easily. But a mid-afternoon nap threw my internal clock off just a bit.

At first, I just floated in the ether of my last pleasant dream, swimming in ice blue eyes that were surprisingly warm. Then I became aware of a sound. Breathing. I could tell Sherlock was already awake by the way he was breathing. It wasn't the restful cadence of sleep.

I cracked an eye open.

"Hello," I croaked out.

"Hmmm," he responded and nuzzled my jawline with his nose.

I nuzzled back instinctively, like two cats greeting each other.

"You look so peaceful when you are asleep, John," Sherlock observed as he ran a hand lightly up and down my chest.

"It's because I know you are here to watch over me, even though you should be sleeping more yourself," I answered and kissed him warmly. "What time is it anyway?"

"Half past seven already," Sherlock said. "But plenty of time."

I caught on that. "Plenty of time for what?" I asked.

His wicked smile made my toes curl. Apparently, his rest had been restorative.

Every time Sherlock made love to me, he tried to find something, however small, that was new or different. It was his way of keeping the life in our love life. The zing. I was charged with keeping the comfort and routine. Hence our undressing earlier.

Making Sherlock take his time was part of how we had built our trust and intimacy as lovers above and beyond that of friends and partners. It was how he allowed me to change him, just a little bit. It was how I allowed myself to try to change him. I wanted these moments to be different from any other moments in our lives.

There was enthusiasm here. There was excitement. But there was also patience and restraint. These were hard but important lessons for Sherlock. And I was willing to take a lifetime to teach him.

He was willing to bestow a lifetime of his attention on me. It was an amazingly gratifying exchange.

"I have something for you," Sherlock said.

"Oh?"

Sherlock reached over me and to the bedside table. He slid the drawer open and produced a bottle of lubricant. Edible lubricant. Cherry flavored.

"I thought the 'cherry' flavor quite cheeky," he said.

I smiled at him, all flushed cheeks and dancing eyes. He was seeking my approval now.

"Fun," I said and waggled my eyebrows at him. "Who's first?"

"I think that I owe you from the last time," Sherlock said as he situated himself atop me. I was already starting to sport an erection just looking at his halo of curls and miles of perfect skin. I rested my hands on top of his thighs, fingers dipping off to the sides to feel the indentations made by his muscles as they worked lightly to keep him upright.

Sherlock took one impossibly long finger and trailed it down my sternum. "Now, Doctor, I am going to take very good care of you," he began.

I couldn't help the little chuckle that fell out of my lips. He was just so cute.

Sherlock frowned ever so slightly, and I sobered immediately. My brows lowered and my lips puckered to say, 'sorry, do go on.'

"Although it's possible you could take care of me. I seem to be a bit peckish. Do you have anything I could nibble on?" Sherlock had trouble keeping a straight face through that one.

"Umm," I stalled. "Possibly." Even though this was taking a decidedly more comic and less sexy turn, I was still enjoying myself. We were naked, in bed, rested, safe and warm. Life was perfection when all of these things colluded to wrap the two of us up in a cocoon.

"I hope it's something with lots of protein. I need more protein in my diet, Doctor," Sherlock continued.

I guffawed at that one. "Really?" I asked him. "That's what you're going with?"

"Shut up, John," he came back. "I'm trying to be flirty. Is it not working?"

"Sweetie," I said, rubbing my hands up and down his forearms and elbows. "You don't have to flirt with me. I'm already naked in your bed. This is where you get to have your way with me. Flirting is all about the illusion of 'this,'" I gestured to the two of us, skin-on-skin and working up a sweat.

"Besides," I continued. "Flirting is better attempted in a restaurant or bar. Let's try it sometime then, huh?"

His burgeoning thundercloud cleared up at my offer.

"Indeed, I can understand what you mean," he agreed.

"Good," I said. "Now kiss me, you fool."


	6. Chapter 6

Of course, I was little less than thrilled when Sherlock left me at that first crime scene. He leapt down the stairs like a gazelle, and I hobbled along behind, buffeted by the criminologists who were trying to get back to doing their jobs. I felt rather useless and abandoned.

But my hackles rose when Sally delivered her 'he's a psychopath' speech. She was obviously one of those people who preys on those she sees as 'other' to feel better about herself. Maintaining an affair with a married colleague, being outfoxed on cases by a non-police officer, and the general frustration of a woman in the law enforcement profession were all weighing on her. But she had made her choices.

Lashing out at Sherlock for her own misguided choices and impulses was petty and painted a much more shocking picture of her than him.

It's too bad. Sally probably had a promising career and life at one time. But she was letting her personal biases get in the way. Every time she called Sherlock 'freak,' I wanted to introduce her teeth to my fist.

She knew exactly what buttons she was pushing on my friend when she said that too. She was marginalizing him. She was pushing him even further away from any normal human contact.

Just because he was brilliant. And his brilliance shone so brightly.

She was probably mostly pissed at Sherlock's refusal to acknowledge any sort of her authority. He didn't defer to her opinions or patterns. He didn't do well with any sort of authority-she wasn't special. He would have been a rubbish soldier.

Although, when I think back on that ridiculous conversation at Angelo's, something sticks out to me now. Sherlock said he was 'flattered' when he thought I was propositioning him. Or hitting on him. Or just feeling him out about dating.

He was flattered. And he said so.

That doesn't fit with someone who doesn't go in for niceties because he doesn't know them or care about them. It's more like someone who only bothers with politeness when the person in question is worth it. And I was worth it.

I'm blushing.

That also fits with Sherlock's attempt at humiliating Sally about her knees and Anderson's floors. He knew that it would be uncomfortable for them to have their dalliances trotted out for everyone. He knew that it was socially unacceptable to commit adultery. And especially so with a colleague.

Same with Jennifer Wilson, the victim, who Sherlock determined was a serial adulterer. He knew that this state of social affairs which went against the stated 'acceptable order' was important to how she lived her life. Conducted her business on her mobile. Kept her jewelry cleaned and herself groomed (hair, nails, make-up). It also pointed to her cleverness that she was able to keep up the charade for a length of time.

As an anthropologist of London, Sherlock would have to understand motivations and de-motivations of human beings living in very close and constant proximity to each other. When he turned me down, he was letting me down easy.

And when he was shaming Sally about her nighttime activities, he was using the judgement of the group to do so. Classic social pressure-which Sherlock understands intimately. He's been under pressure from the day he was born, I suspect.

Sherlock tries to live in a very carefully prioritized world. It's what makes his Mind Palace possible. The structure and eschewing of anything less than relevant (in his opinion) keeps the Palace in working order. Politeness, social graces, bashfulness in the face of 'betters' are not things that are useful to Sherlock. But that doesn't mean he doesn't know about them. He just chooses not to participate.

Unless he sees an advantage in it.

* * *

The advantage used to be getting information out of witnesses or tricking suspects into confessing. That advantage now is communicating to me about his needs. Admitting he has needs.

Sometimes, it's just a touch. A light brush of his fingers on my shoulder or neck. Sometimes there are hesitant words. Words like "John, may I . . ." or "John? Will you . . .?" with the uncharacteristic pauses and hesitations that only precede requests or inquiries of a personal nature.

He knows that to ask me softly is to express his genuine need for my input. When he's brusque, it's about the Work. When he's gentle, it's about us.

And I try to respond in kind. I use my words and my gestures to indicate my needs as well as my assurances. I am here for him. No matter what. Nothing he says will ever drive me away.

He needs to know that. Often.

He knows that my words of assurance are not small talk, not polite platitudes. They are real expressions of my heart. I have taken him into that four-chambered home. I have made a place for him.

He does not need the pleasantries, but he uses them as the language of our bedroom.

After our extended bout of snogging, Sherlock pulled back to look me in the eyes.

"John?" he said quietly, then lost the nerve to keep eye contact.

I reached up for my customary brush through his luscious curls. What could have sobered him so quickly?

"What is it, love?" I asked quietly. My concern was written all over my face. And I closed my hand around the nape of his neck to keep him close.

"It's that," he said, enigmatically. "Why do you love me? No one else ever has-"

I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

"I love you as the moth loves the flame. I am drawn to you. I cannot help myself. It is as if you were made for me," I told him.

His eyes were shining too brightly.

"Oh, Sherlock," I murmured and held him even closer. "Why do you love such an ordinary intellect as mine?"

Sherlock nuzzled my neck.

"Not ordinary, John. You are my John."

"And you are my one and only Sherlock. My beautiful man, inside and out."

That settled for the evening, he proceeded to show me how much I belonged to him. Sherlock was nothing if not a generous lover.

He approached lovemaking the same way as his deducing. Using all of his senses. The pads of his fingers found my scars and lovingly caressed them in ways no one had ever done before. He used his long nose to scent me all over, his tongue licking up drops of perspiration. His eyes worshipped my skin in all of its curves and bulges, creases and crevices. And he listened to my soft sighs and feral growls to determine the best places to kiss and nip at me.

My pleasure was always before his own. And I don't mean that he made sure that I climaxed before he did. Our time together was not a race to the end. It was a long-distance journey on which we frequently stopped to enjoy new sights.

I enjoyed watching him obsess over some new mole or spot on my skin that he had not seen before. He was particularly interested in my body hair-mine being slightly more heavy than his own. He would compose whole speeches about the direction and texture of the hair on my chest and abdomen.

When I chuckled over this information, he dove in and kissed me breathless.

His questing fingers lightly tapped down my pectoral, past my ticklish abdomen, and came to rest at the base of my turgid cock. Running a long thumb up the length of me, I gasped into his mouth. His touch always thrilled me.

Then his longer-than-should-be-legal fingers encircled me. He was so very tactile and phenomenal when pulling me off. The pressure, the speed, the friction. He was a genius in all ways.

But this time, I stopped him before my climax. I wanted more. I wanted him to be gasping and writhing as well.

With our lips locked together once more, I moved our bodies to the edge of the mattress. Sherlock settled across my lap at once, knowing my plan as I did. My hands grasped his arse and kneaded the muscles. I had so lusted after this perfect arse before we became lovers.

I was still infinitely grateful to have free access to it.

Sherlock began to move slowly up and down my body, rubbing our erections together. His lips disengaged from mine as he pulled my lips to his collar bone. I nipped at the prominent outcrop, moving upward to suck a mark on his more tender neck.

"Mmmm, John," Sherlock moaned to me.

My feet planted firmly on the floor helped me balance his weight and keep my own balance. His long arms stretched around my shoulders almost twice and encircled me in white, milky skin. Softness and warmth. The food and sleep had done him much good.

And me too, benefiting from his renewed energy.

Then he, very politely, asked me to shag him senseless.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock told me about his time with the cabbie. How he got the name Moriarty out of him. I was surprised that he was willing to step on the gunshot wound of another human being-serial killer or not.

It says more about Sherlock than about the cold-blooded killer he did it to.

As a soldier, I have experienced all kinds of pain. When I told Sherlock that I didn't have to use my imagination about imminent death, I could tell he was hurt by that. Already, my trauma was his trauma. That kind of pain was straightforward.

I don't like physical pain. Pain to me represents war and hatred. Pain is what prevented me from continuing as a military doctor. The pain in my leg-psychosomatic or not. Pain was a thief. Pain was an enemy.

The pain Sherlock routinely inflicted was different. He saw pain as a weapon, a tool, perhaps even a crutch. I wouldn't call Sherlock a violent person, per se, but he was no stranger to inflicting pain through his words and attitudes. He acted like he didn't care-and sometimes he didn't-but he always knew how he was wielding his weapon of pain.

Using pain as a weapon and a tool to get Moriarty's name out of the dying man was probably one of those acts that led Sherlock to identify himself as a sociopath. Perhaps the weapon part was a bit sociopathic. But the tool part wasn't. Sherlock was looking ahead. He was acknowledging that the pain of his one person would be a tool to prevent the pain of countless others.

Sherlock knew that if there were someone out there who was trying to get his attention by sponsoring other criminals and criminal behavior, then that man was a very grave threat to the world at large. There would be more pain to come than that of a man who was seconds from death anyway.

I have also learned to understand Sherlock's use of pain. I still don't always like it, but I understand its uses beyond war. And I have learned that I can use it as well.

I used my pain in my leg to shield myself from civilian life. To wallow in my shame and disappointment at mustering out with an injury. Sherlock saw through that in a New York-minute. I didn't mean to use pain in that way, but he used my psychological pain over my expulsion from the Army to show me just how addicted I am to adrenaline.

Sometimes I wonder if I should feel ashamed of myself for being so excited and pleased by the rush of danger. There are worse things, true. I do not kill for pleasure. I do not deal drugs to school children. The only person who is really hurt by my pleasure-seeking is me, now and again. And now maybe Sherlock.

But he's as bad as I am.

Addictive personality. That's Sherlock. Addicted to thought, deduction, drugs (formerly), smoking (supposedly formerly), solving puzzles, constructing his Mind Palace, and now me. Little old John Watson. An addiction of the Great Sherlock Holmes.

When we talk about his former addictions, he always assures me that I am far more beneficial to him than the others (excepting maybe the Mind Palace). We talk about his time on cocaine, my time in Afghanistan. Talking to Sherlock is much more comforting than talking to a therapist. I am much more open and honest with him.

Sure, he's judging me, but I'm used to that.

Maybe I'm addicted to him too. His mind, his atrocious manners, his sharp wit. When we slyly catch each others' eye to see if a joke or a snide remark landed, it's magical. I feel warm all over. Just seeing him smile is like a reward.

When Sherlock realized that first evening that I was the marksman he was seeking for the death of a serial killer, he understood a great deal about me. Of course, being Sherlock, he already understood a lot about me, but this was something more. I didn't want to inflict pain. Not even on a serial killer.

But if I was going to make the decision to use pain, I wasn't going to second-guess myself. My moral compass is as true as they come.

And my compass was pointing the direct opposite direction from that Sebastian Wilkes character. What a slime. The way he treated Sherlock made my blood boil.

He had called us for help. And he acted like he was doing us a favor. We needed the money, but he didn't necessarily know that. And no amount of money was worth taking his shit. I was so pleased when Sherlock put him in his place, repeatedly.

The type of violence Wilkes like to indulge in was the typical school-yard bully type. Single out the kid who is different-most usually smarter and/or less imposing physically-and hammer away at those differences. As if any college-aged man was ever upset about someone knowing he had been having sex the night before!

Jesus, what a prick.

When I met Sarah, I saw an opportunity to stave off my sexual tension all while continuing to build my relationship with Sherlock. It wasn't a very nice move on my part. Another type of violence, I suppose, especially since I was so violently in love with Sherlock already.

But I took him at his word that he was 'married to the Work'. I didn't want to come between them. I wanted Sherlock to choose me. As far as I was concerned, becoming his flat mate and tagging along to crime scenes already made me a serious competitor for Sherlock's attention. It was only a matter of time.

It was also inevitable that things with Sarah would be testy after our kidnapping and her near-death-by-spear experience. Once again, I killed for Sherlock, to save and protect him. And I would do it a thousand times over, always. The pain that he experienced when he found me tied to the chair and my life threatened by someone who thought that I was him is something he confessed to me much later.

His absence in the flat when the kidnappers arrived. His inability to get away from the assassin who had him by the neck. His anguish in not being able to comfort me physically after freeing me from my bindings. Sherlock's pain as reflected through anyone's treatment of me has become his most vulnerable place.

Therefore, he guards it quite zealously by guarding me twice as much.

In this instance, Sherlock's pain became a potent motivator. He finds comfort for himself in my protection. And I get that amazing, single-focused attention directed at me for increasingly ecstatic periods of time.

* * *

Sherlock rubbed himself against me between our abdomens. His head tipped back and his mouth fell open.

"Oh, John," he moaned.

"Sherlock," I whispered back against his pectorals.

After a few moments, he reached between us to tuck me underneath his perineum, rolling his hips to stimulate himself on me in this position. I could feel my pre-ejaculate rubbing against the fine hairs on his arse cheeks. My glans caught on his cheeks as well every time he pulled back from me. I couldn't suppress my own moan at the sensations of that warm, soft skin dragging across me.

At the sound, Sherlock brought his head forward and claimed my lips, quickly moving on to my neck. He loved to hear me vocalize. It fed his own arousal and led to even more vocalizations from him. My hands scrabbled to hold on to him as his rolling hips began to move faster and more erratically.

The expanse of his back was the subject of many hours' of exploration for me. His skin seemed to go on forever, and like an explorer I staked my claim on every inch for posterity. I particularly liked sitting astride him, while he lay on his stomach, so that I could place kisses on every vertebrae in that lengthy column. But in this position, I used my thumbs to skate down the xylophone of his rib cage toward the sharp points of his hip bones.

Sherlock was quite flexible. He surprised me on many occasions. With my hands on his hips in this position, he had arched his back impossibly. When I realized this skill, I suggested we position ourselves close enough to the wall so that he had something to stretch against. Nudging the bed closer to the wall, we left about a foot for my legs to rest on the hardwood. Then Sherlock could arch and stretch to his heart's content without actually falling off of me.

That was the first time Sherlock had experienced a multiple orgasm. The angle was more than perfect for prostate stimulation.

Tonight though, he wanted to stay close to my body as we worked ourselves into a frenzy. Although, grounding each other was as important as exploring new heights. And speaking of heights, the moment was fast approaching where the two of us needed to push this encounter to the next level.

Sherlock drew his lips from my skin and leaned toward the bedside table. Bottle in hand, he reached behind himself to spread lube on both of us. Experience had taught us that a sufficient amount of lubrication was enough for penetration as long as we were cautious and took our time.

That taken care of, Sherlock lined me up with his body and bore down. The heat this man could produce still astonished me. How did someone with virtually no body fat do that? He defied any biology I had every studied. The entrance to his body gave way fractionally as he pushed, and I simply held on. Sherlock liked this position because of the control it gave him.

He vacillated between wanting and conceding control in bed. Tonight it was wanting.

Sherlock's voice reached heretofore unknown deep registers when we were joined. The sound rumbled through his chest like thunder across a grassy plain. Where my skin touched his, the vibrations transferred to me.

His movements once I was completely seated within him were small and measured at first. At this point, he wanted to ease into his pleasure, draw it out. It was something that he needed to savor in a completely different way from his need to solve puzzles quickly. The deductions were multiple, tiny orgasms of his mind over and over until he was exhausted from the inside out. The electricity of his mind zinging from idea to idea was dizzying and very arousing for me in a completely different way than our lovemaking.

The slight friction between his body and mine was consuming for me. Sometimes I wondered where Sherlock's mind went during sex. Was he able to concentrate on the transport for this amount of time? He must. I had never once gotten the impression that he wasn't all here with me in the middle of the act. Afterward, his energy returned much more quickly than my own. He would be up and texting, calling out to me, as I burrowed into a pillow and groaned. I wanted to sleep.

Even when I was in control of the pacing, I respected his need for the slow burn. It helped me last longer too, to be honest. Ever since the first time we had consummated our courtship, I had had trouble keeping myself restrained. I had thought eventually this amazing relationship with this amazing man would settle into some sort of routine. Our domestic routine certainly had. And even our routines on crime scenes, during kidnappings. But in the bedroom, I was still like a teenager first experimenting with my sexual responses.

I crave this man and his body in ways I have never known before. He can set me off with a arched eyebrow or quirk of his quixotic lips. He sends flames dancing down my extremities if he sat too closely to me in a cab. I had 'accidentally' jumped him in public more times than one.

The smile that this thought produced caused Sherlock to pause in his movement.

"Really, John? You're still on about that alley with the mysterious sounds emanating from behind the bin?" Sherlock asked him incredulously. As if Sherlock himself didn't bring up details of our past at inopportune moments.

"I still say that was a person watching us, not some animal," I said with a finger pointed at Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock scoffed. "John, I think that I would have known if some vagrant was watching me take you in the dark," he replied.

"Mmmmm," I savored the memory. "Yeah. Perhaps a round two tonight for me?"

Sherlock smiled slowly and bent to claim a kiss.

"Yes."


	8. Chapter 8

I know that readers of my blog assume that our lives are just fraught with excitement. A never-ending thrill ride. And that's good, I suppose. It means that my writing is getting better. I'm able to spin the tale in a captivating fashion. But of course, real life is not the same as our stories or our movies or our telly.

Real life has pauses, boredom, and awkwardness. And no convenient editing.

Things that come out of our mouths wrong do not get a chance for a second take. They aren't written out ahead of time by a professional. We have to do the best we can.

Which, sometimes for Sherlock, includes destruction of our landlady's property.

Boredom had prompted him to start his little marksmanship display, but I suspect that, like a three-year old with a new sibling, Sherlock was also seeking my attention. Also like that three-year old, negative attention would suffice as well as any.

Things with Sarah were sufficiently patched up after the incident with the kidnapping for us to continue working together and dating casually. She kept me somewhat distracted from Sherlock. You know, unless he was using my gun in the flat. That was convenient for him anyway.

I wondered at the time how I could possibly devote more time and attention to this child-man. We lived together. We ate together. We solved crimes together. I even let him disrupt my dating life when the call of The Work sounded. But the problem of giving Sherlock more of my attention was calling more of his down on me.

So, yes, there are periods of time, intense time, where excitement is the watchword of our lives. It's a pendulum that swings all too far from side to side. We're up; we're down. We're in each others' space too much; we're tracking each other through the streets of London.

His histrionics over my blog write-up was attention and excitement I could have lived without. And I'll freely admit I reacted poorly to the hissy fit and editorial critique.

Ah, the lovely contradictions.

I had wondered when I had written up my blog entry how he would react to my 'spectacularly ignorant' phrase, but I had rationalized that he would parse out the definition of ignorant from the common usage. He didn't have some knowledge. That's all I meant. And I had prefaced the phrase with more accolades about his brilliance.

Somehow he missed those.

I was surprised by the circumstance of Sherlock not knowing anything. So sue me. He seemed to be a walking World Wide Web of interconnected information. Sure, we all have our smart phones in our pockets, but bringing meaning to facts is still a bit beyond AI. I never imagined that he would be so defiant about his ignorance. Dismiss it as irrelevant. I found that positively shocking.

His little display of pique was much less shocking and much more annoying.

He confessed to me later that he had, at the time, begun to form some sort of feelings for me. So not only was he colossally bored but also perplexed by the uprising of new emotion. Any emotion-anger, warmth, confusion-sentiment, in his words. To compensate, he clamped down on any stray expression of affection or simple caring toward anyone or anything.

Lucky for both of us and our petty little emotional problems, James Moriarty decided that that was the perfect time to start his own bid for our attention. And his attention was the catalyst for what came after.

By the time I was standing in front of Sherlock at the pool, covered in explosives that would kill us all, I was re-prioritizing my life as quickly as possible. What did I want out of my life? What was important to me? What would I willingly die for?

Sherlock. He was the answer to all three questions. And suddenly, my attraction was about much more than a fantastic shag and a hot arse. I was falling for Sherlock.

I was invested in making sure that this brilliant, beautiful, brat of a man-child not only survived his cat-and-mouse game with the equally brilliant and bratty supervillain but also learned the value that caring could bring to his life. The reasons that caring would separate him from the path that Moriarty walked.

I harangued him about the lives at stake in the middle of his and Moriarty's game, and he admitted he didn't want to care about these people. He did not see how caring could help him in his pursuit of The Work.

However, he did cop to caring about disappointing me. He cared that I had my hopes pinned on him. He cared that he might not live up to my image of him.

He tried to put me off by claiming he was no hero.

But it was too late, and he knew it. He already was my hero. The way he puts all of himself into his crime solving. The way that he demands the next level of effort and performance from all of those around him. The way he tries so hard to make sure I don't up and leave him out of frustration or pique. These are the ways he is my hero.

He was my hero in his offering of his heart to me.

When Sherlock reminded Moriarty that people had died during his little games to draw Sherlock into a battle of wits with him, I knew that a corner had been turned. Sherlock was thinking about how his joy of puzzle-solving had provoked someone else into unspeakable acts. Sherlock felt indirectly responsible for those peoples' deaths.

If he hadn't presented Moriarty with a target for his ire, perhaps lives could have been spared. If Sherlock had not caught his attention . . .

But if Sherlock were not Sherlock, then I wouldn't love him like I do. And watching him grow and evolve into the better man I knew he could be-thus deepening my love for him-was my greatest pride.

Therefore, the excitement in our relationship comes not from his sulks or his insults. It's not from anything designed to grab each other's attention. It arises from our individual need to pay attention to each other. The gaze inward rather than the pull. By being nothing other than ourselves, we developed the inability to turn away from each other.

I could not give up his brilliance. He could not give up my steady presence. Two halves of our whole. That's what's exciting.

* * *

His smirk faded as he began his slow slide up and down me again. But now he gained momentum much quicker. I could feel my sweat bubble to the surface of my skin, flushing with the pleasure of sex. I knew that my cheeks were bright red with exertion as well as arousal. I also knew that Sherlock liked cataloging these changes in my body.

He ran his tongue over my clavicle, tasting the salt of my sweat. He began chasing the rivulets back up into my hairline, nosing my scalp when he arrived. I turned my head to allow him more access to my more sensitive areas behind my ears and at the nape of my neck. He didn't disappoint me.

"John," he murmured. "You taste like home."

The first time Sherlock had pronounced me 'home' I had had a visceral reaction. Home for a veteran was a special term. It was full of more meaning than any number of Christmas television specials, runs in the World Series, and cheap, sentimental advertising campaigns combined. Home was safety and life. Home was sacred. Home was the reason a soldier left home. To protect.

So being Sherlock's home was overwhelming and categorically comforting at the same moment, sending me into emotional overdrive. He knew that dropping that particular phrase was like dropping a red flag before a bull.

Sherlock stopped his kissing for a brief second before pronouncing, "And cherries." Then he laughed.

"I'll show you cherries," I teased, and with a growl, I leaned back onto the bed and rolled us over, straddling Sherlock where he once was over me. His sly smile told me this had been his objective in the first place. Git.

As we budged up the bed to ensure proper traction, my knees sank into the mattress with purpose. My hips began to roll in a rhythm much practiced over the years. It was calculated to draw out the most delicious sounds from Sherlock, to make him undulate like a belly dancer below me, and to bring him to climax with maximum pleasure. My mouth latched onto a pink nipple and suckled.

After a moment of listening to his whispered pleas for more and harder, I bit down lightly on the erect nipple. Then I planted my elbows on either side of his rib cage, my hands slid up under his back to cup his scapulae. I did not touch him with my mouth now. I wanted to watch that resolute face crumble. To see him let loose and know that it was all because of me.

I would watch the formidable Sherlock Holmes become a writhing puddle of sex.

My hips snapped and rolled and sought out his most sensitive areas and pressures. Sherlock was rapidly losing the power of coherent speech. Only my name even remotely sounded like an actual word anymore. The rest were primitive imitations of speech formed to convey the equally primitive urges and sensations that were currently arresting any higher thought from the most amazing mind I had ever known. His brain stem must have looked like a Christmas tree on an EEG.

When his breathing began coming in shorter and shorter gasps and his fingers dug into my triceps, I knew that things were well and truly progressing. That 'un-boring breathing' I had promised earlier was realized. I huffed a few breaths of warm air onto his lips. His eyes popped open.

Sherlock's eyes are universes unto themselves. I could star gaze into them for weeks at a time. The contrasting colors, the depth of expression in those orbs were miraculous to me. And when he was this far gone, they dilated so widely that I felt myself falling into them to be lost forever.

It wasn't an entirely unwelcome fate.

"Oh, John," he moaned. "Fuck." The expletive sounded almost painful. I knew what he was experiencing. The intensity of pleasure that tips over into pain, into work, into a test of character. I knew he had the stamina to withstand my assault on his senses, but to hear him tested was thoroughly stimulating for me.

My hand snaked down between the two of us to grasp his leaking cock and pump it with vigor. No need for finesse at this stage of the game. We were ensured orgasms short of bombs falling from the sky. And even then, it might just be worth finishing first.

You know, before we had to deal with that sort of shit.

I ran my thumb over his leaking slit, then leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"That's right, my beauty. My brilliant man. Give me everything you have. Take my cock and give yourself to me, now," I told him in no-uncertain terms.

The shudders began deep in his abdomen, rising to the surface and spreading through his groin where I could feel them begin to grip me differently. His legs then trembled where he had planted them on either side of my own legs. I could feel him pushing his feet down the mattress, lengthening his legs and straightening his knees before bringing them back up.

I slowed my thrusts slightly to draw out the pleasure. No need to rush to the finish line when we could enjoy some prolonged togetherness. Prolonged mindlessness.

When Sherlock was spent, he lay beneath me like a banquet for my feast. His eyes sparkled in the low light as he regarded me.

"I love you, John," he pronounced, his voice unhurried. His hands reached up to brush my sweaty hair from my forehead and cup my jaw. I answered him with a few more snaps of my hips and an answering orgasm which stimulated a few more aftershocks for him.

Lowering myself to his body, he wrapped those endless arms around me. We had long since grown accustomed to our bodily fluids and their sticky proclivities. Nothing that a quick, shared shower couldn't remedy soon enough. But we would have our kisses and our continued intimacy now. No need to interrupt that for anything.

Again, even bombs might not be enough.

But they sure would make things extra exciting.

fin


End file.
